The door groans open, and the stench of vinegar and burnt rags slaps your mask. A child’s whimper echoes inside—a thin, wet sound. You step over the threshold, your boots squelching in something darker than mud

The room is a crumbling tenement, its walls blistered with mildew. A young boy, no older than eight, lies swaddled in grime-stained linens on a splintered table. His skin peels like overcooked meat, the blackened veins beneath throbbing like worms under glass. His mother clutches your arm, her nails digging through the leather

“He begged for bread yesterday. Came back coughing coins.”

Her eyes dart to the scalpel peeking from your belt

“Fix him. I’ll pay with... with whatever you want.”

Behind you, a shuffling noise. The boy’s older sister—twelve, hollow-cheeked, her hair shorn to stubble—presses against the hearth. She holds a rusted poker, eyes locked on the blackened scab blossoming on his thigh

“You kill him, I’ll kill you,” she rasps. Her knuckles are raw, the poker stained with someone else’s blood

The child convulses. A frothy black spatter specks your goggles

** Exposure roll: +2. Do you cut his leg, burn the wound, or flee?**